Last night, you said I was the transit authority to your bus lane. Your cruelty reduced me to tears. It was hurtful, to say the least, but I chose to let it go.

But when you shouted after me into the cold night air, your words slapping my ears like day-old trout, that I’ve never been more than the James Cameron to your Spielberg – you crossed the line. I tried my best to think of how successful Titanic was (commercially at least); but you and I both know, there was enough room on that door for Leonardo and I can never forgive Kate for that.

So let me answer by saying – you are the Hugh Grant to my Sense and Sensibility; the Cher to my good taste; the expiry date to my cheese.

I will never forget the time we shared in Copacabana but at some point I need to say to you, there isn’t enough pineapple in the world. You were once the Carmen to my Miranda but the flame has undeniably burnt out, like a sparkler grasped too tightly in a chubby five-year-old hand. You will always be my first love; the one who taught me that musical theatre does have a point and that, while Jack Black can’t act, he’s still really funny.

Thank you for that. (No thanks for the tattoo of Popeye in drag, or my now immovable devotion to Andy Griffith. I suppose, some scars last a lifetime).